Red Curls and Guilty Pleasures
by Boogum
Summary: It was wrong. He knew it even as the plans were already half-forming in his mind. Astoria would never have to know. No one would ever have to know. The establishment was discreet. Unethical, but discreet. He could have her; he just needed the hair.


This was written for rowan-greenleaf's 'Polyjuice Brothel' plot bunny/challenge thing (oh, yes, I am eloquent tonight), which can be found at _The DG Forum_. I must warn you, if you're looking for fluff, you'd best find a new story to read.

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><p><strong>Red Curls and Guilty Pleasures<strong>

The first time had been a mistake.

He'd been married to Astoria for two years. She was six months pregnant. They had been fighting, again, and somehow his thoughts had strayed to _her_.

A voice, seductive and cunning, had whispered in his mind, then—whispered thoughts that had occurred to him many times since the establishment had opened, but which he had banished with disgust. He was not so low as to sink to that level. That was for desperate men. Pathetic men. He would not join their ranks.

But the thought would not leave him: he could have her. _Her_. All he needed was a single strand of hair.

It was wrong. He knew it even as the plans were already half-forming in his mind. Astoria would never have to know. No one would ever have to know. The establishment was discreet. Unethical, but discreet. There would be no whispers that he, Draco Malfoy, was resorting to using a Polyjuice brothel to get his jollies, because the owners knew that to leak any information would be to lose a valued and (more importantly) wealthy customer. All lips would be sealed. He would be free to take his pleasure in the woman (or man) of his choice without fear of discovery so long as he provided the hair. That was the only rule. Customers must provide their own hairs if they wanted a quality transformation—the establishment would take no responsibility for how that hair was acquired.

Draco smiled grimly to himself. Yes, _The Illusive Siren_ was undeniably unethical, but the idea behind it was all too tempting. Painful dreams of longing could finally be realised, and his dreams of _her_ were indeed painful.

They had never kissed, never touched in any kind of intimate way. All he had was the memory of a warm body trapped in his arms and the scent of lavender and rosemary clinging to red curls. She had fought him that day, and she had escaped. Even nine years later, he couldn't say what had happened—whether he had simply let her go, or whether she really had bested him—but from that moment onwards he was like one ensnared. Her eyes. Her lips. Her crown of red curls. She drew her to him like a vampire to blood, and he had wanted to consume her—all of her.

Sometimes she had looked at him too—contemplative glances that had made his heart race and his blood turn to liquid fire—but then she would toss her red tresses over her shoulder and look the other way, dismissing him completely. He had hated her when she did that, yet he had continued to watch her with obsessive devotion; he couldn't help himself. Sometimes it had worried him. Sometimes he really thought he might be losing it, but he had enough control not to act on his urges. He had watched, but he had not touched. He had imagined, but he had never acted. He was not so base as that—or so he had constantly reminded himself. Besides, she was Potter's girl.

Even now, the combination of those two words filled his mouth with a bitter taste. He choked on those words, even when thought in silence. She should have been his. She _would_ have been his, but Potter had got there first—as he always did—and Draco was left to scrounge around in the dirt, too busy trying to piece together a life splintered to fragments to concern himself with romance. There was no hero's reward for him after the defeat of the Dark Lord, only degradation and distrust, like a cyst festering under his pride. Astoria had softened the pain for a while, but she was not stupid. She had sensed that his heart was not completely hers, and then, finally, the accusation had been flung:

"_Are you seeing another woman, Draco? Are you?"_

Draco had told her no because it was the truth, but he had realised in that moment that he wished he could have said yes. Yes meant that he had found a way to have _her_, and it was the woman with red curls who he dreamed about and desired above all others.

And there it was again: that niggling little thought that he could have her. _All_ of her. He just needed that strand of red hair.

Draco knew it was wrong, but he also knew he was going to do it anyway. It was inevitable, really. Like Potter defeating the Dark Lord and winning the girl, Draco knew that one day he was going to walk through the doors of _The Illusive Siren_ with a red curl clutched in his hand and request a prostitute to take the form of Ginevra Weasley (now Potter). The decision was made in a matter of minutes, and the plan to get the hair formed less than a second later. It was as if he had been planning for this moment since the day he'd first caged her in his arms and this was just his chance to finally put it into motion.

The plan was beautifully simple. He would get his house-elf, Treaky, to sneak into her room and take one strand of red from her hairbrush. No one would ever suspect him that way, for no one would ever know it had happened. It was foolproof. Perfect.

So it was that Draco found himself holding the thin piece of hair in his hand, admiring the way it caught the light and glowed like fire. Uncertainty flittered through his mind like fuzzy waves on a Muggle television screen, brief and annoying, but he pushed the thoughts aside. A reckless impulsiveness had taken over him, blanketing his reason with a shroud of distorted logic. It made sense to use the hair. It made sense to satisfy his desire to be with Ginevra, if only once. He could return to Astoria and the life of a dutiful husband later, but for an hour he would forget his married life and the child growing in his wife's womb. He would forget everything.

Draco placed the hair in a small, glass case and then pocketed it. He slung on his jacket, picked up his wand, and then Disapparated with an impatient crack. _The Illusive Siren_ loomed before him like a grinning whore: legs already open, ready for him to enter to discover her pleasures. He hesitated only a moment before pushing through the doors, slipping into the opulence and sordid decadence that was the brothel. An unassuming woman in a black dress greeted him, and Draco wasted no time in handing over the glass case and making his request. The transaction was completed with surprising swiftness, and Draco felt a little dizzy at how easy it all was as the woman led him to the room that had been prepared.

"She will be waiting for you inside," the woman told him by way of parting, and then continued down the hallway.

Draco stared at the door with the brass handle, his heart beating violently in his chest. _She_ was in there—all his, all for him. There would be no more waiting, no more fantasising. He could finally have what he had always wanted.

He turned the handle and pushed the heavy door forward, entering the candle-lit room. A woman in a loose robe lay on the bed, red curls tumbling down to her waist, and her brown eyes fixed on his. A slow smile curved her lips as they stared at each other, and she slipped the robe off her shoulders, baring her soft little breasts. Draco shut the door behind him with a snap.

"What's your name?" he asked, advancing towards the bed as he slung off his jacket and began unbuttoning his shirt.

"Ginevra," she answered with another smile, stretching herself invitingly against the pillows.

"Good."

He removed the rest of his clothes and joined her on the bed, tearing the robe completely off her body with a determined glint in his eyes.

"Mmm, like it rough, do you?" she observed huskily, sliding her thigh up against his.

"Shut up," Draco snapped, and kissed her.

He didn't want to hear her talk. Every word she spoke dripped of falseness—a jarring note in the masterpiece. The stupid whore didn't seem to understand, however, and Draco had to resist the urge to silence her with his wand. Instead, he spread her legs and forced himself inside her, hoping to turn her tacky comments into something more pleasing to his ear—something more like _her_. It didn't work. Even the way she responded to him was all wrong. There was no fire, no depth. She was just some cheap copy of the woman with red curls, but he would have her anyway, worthless whore that she was. He would have all of her, because it was the only way he could have _her_. The only way. He just wished she would shut her stupid mouth.

Draco gave a frustrated growl and thrust into the woman more roughly, determined to awaken some essence of the real Ginevra. The whore panted and moaned in exquisite, pain-edged pleasure as he knew she would, but the sound still grated on his ears as false. It was all false. False. False. False.

This was not her. This easy slut would never be her.

Draco got off the woman abruptly. "Get out," he ordered, not looking at her.

"Wai—what?" she exclaimed, still coming back to earth.

"I don't want you any more. Get out."

The woman looked a little disappointed, but she knew better than to argue with a customer and wasted no time in getting off the bed and putting on her robe. Draco stared fixedly at the roof and waited until he heard the door shut, then he let out a deep sigh and placed his head in his hands. Coming here had been a mistake. He had wanted to find Ginevra, but she was as elusive and infuriating as ever. It was not her face and body that he wanted; it was _her_. Her spirit. Her essence. He couldn't find that in some expensive whore dressed up in red curls and freckle-sprinkled skin. What he needed was the real Ginevra, and it was the real Ginevra he could never have.

Draco got off the bed and put on his clothes, then he Disapparated back to his home. The smell of sex still clung to him, and he scrunched up his face in distaste and immediately went to have a shower, not wanting Astoria to get suspicious. He let the water run down on his body, washing away the filth of _The Illusive Siren, _though it could not remove the memory. The place had left him feeling contaminated, like all the sordidness and wrongness of the brothel was now imprinted on his skin like an invisible tattoo. He could wash himself as many times as he liked, but that didn't change the fact he had cheated on his wife with a prostitute that looked like Ginevra Potter.

His stomach twisted violently at the thought, and he leaned his face against the wall, suddenly feeling sick. He would never go back. Never. _The Illusive Siren_ was a place of filth and illusions, and he wanted no part of that. He would stay with Astoria and be happy. He would forget the woman with red curls.

But he couldn't forget. She lingered in his mind like an unreachable itch, demanding to be scratched. Draco found himself planning for a second visit to the Polyjuice brothel, but this time he would make it work. This time he would make clear stipulations for how he wanted his 'Ginevra' to behave. The first time he had just got the wrong woman. She was stupid and tacky, but this next one wouldn't be. This one would do it right. This one would be perfect.

So Draco returned to the brothel a second time, but that whore had failed him as well, as did the next, and the next, and all the others that followed. He watched fantasy after fantasy be shattered as each whore who took on the red curls and freckle-sprinkled skin distorted the woman that was Ginevra with her wrongness. The face could not reflect the spirit, no matter how many times he tried to recreate her. Ginevra Potter refused to be mastered.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Astoria demanded after putting up with several months of his bad humours and miserable face.

She was clutching their baby boy in her arms, her pretty face screwed up in annoyance. Draco looked at the diminutive brunette and wondered why it was that he could not be happy with her. She was not ugly, nor was she stupid or two-faced like his previous girlfriend, Pansy Parkinson. Really, he should consider himself lucky to have such a wife. She had even given him a beautiful, healthy boy, but it wasn't enough. Astoria was like a fading flower next to Ginevra, and Draco hated it. He _wanted_ to be happy with his wife, but he couldn't get that infuriating redhead out of his mind. He could never get her out of his mind.

"Nothing," Draco said finally, looking the other way. "Nothing is wrong."

Astoria laughed bitterly. "When are you going to stop lying to me, Draco?"

He glanced back at her in surprise, but she was already leaving with their son, slamming the door shut behind her. Draco exhaled heavily and placed his head in his hands, running his fingers through his hair. Astoria would leave him for good one day—that he knew with more certainty than anything else. It pained him to think he was driving her away, but even the genuine love he felt for his wife could not eclipse his obsession with Ginevra Potter. Nothing could eclipse that.

His hands clenched into fists, tugging painfully at his hair. Something needed to be done. Ginevra was ruining everything. If he could just find her and—

Yes, that was it. He would go to _The Illusive Siren_ again. He would find her this time, and then everything would be okay. He could forget the woman with red curls and move on. It would work this time. It had to.

But he knew it wouldn't. He knew he would never find her there. She was too unique, too distinctly _her_.

Draco grabbed his wand and Disapparated with a loud crack; however, it was not outside _The Illusive Siren_ that he appeared, but the lit-up doors of a small pub. He walked inside and saw that there were only a handful of people at the pub. Good. He hated crowds.

The blond was about to take his seat at one of the tables in the far corner when he saw a flash of red out the corner of his eye. He turned and saw a woman with red curls hunched over at the bench, drink in hand. Draco froze, unable to believe what he was seeing. It was her. _Her_.

As if in trance, his legs carried him over to the seat next to hers and made him sit down. He heard his voice greet her, almost as if coming from someone else's lips. She glanced up at him, her brown eyes fixing on his with that same contemplative expression, and then she tossed her head in that dismissive little way of hers and took a sip of her drink. He knew in that moment that this was the real Ginevra.

"Didn't expect to see you here, Malfoy," she observed, not even looking at him.

"I could say the same to you," he responded smoothly, determined not to show his excitement. "Shouldn't you be at home with your darling husband?"

"Shouldn't you be at home with your darling wife?" she shot back.

"Astoria isn't exactly fond of me at the moment," he admitted.

Ginny laughed. "I can believe that."

She looked at him in a measuring way, and he wondered what she saw. Whether she thought he was handsome with his steely grey eyes and finely chiselled features, or whether she thought nothing of him at all.

"What about you?" he asked, refusing to be disconcerted by her gaze. "I told you the truth, so why are you really here?"

A smile touched her lips. "I'm not exactly fond of my husband either at the moment."

"I see."

She gave a soft chuckle. "No sympathy. I like that."

Draco shrugged. "Well, you know I've never been the greatest fan of Harry Potter."

"Is that the only reason?"

He met her amused gaze, and he knew in that moment he was going to tell the truth. "No."

Ginny smiled again and leaned towards him. He caught the scent of geranium and sandalwood mixed with Firewhisky. She had changed her shampoo.

"Would you do me a favour, Malfoy?" she asked quietly.

"And what would that be?"

"Kiss me."

His composure slipped. "What?"

"I want you to kiss me."

Draco could have given plenty of reasons for why it would be wrong for him to do so—they were both married for one thing, and she had obviously been drinking—but he had spent years dreaming of this moment. He was not going to waste it.

He leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers. She tasted like Firewhisky and something else—something distinctly her. His blood came to life at the contact, singing in ecstasy and relief. Finally, he had found her. Finally he had found the essence that had eluded him for so long. Draco wrapped his arm around her and deepened the kiss, needing more—needing all of her. She slid onto his lap, kissing him back just as passionately, almost desperately.

"Take me upstairs," she whispered in between kisses.

Draco stared at her in stunned silence for a moment. He turned to face the barkeeper and demanded a room, unable to believe his luck. Keys were handed over, and Draco and Ginny kissed and stumbled their way up to the little room, collapsing on the bed in a tangle of limbs and hair. Clothes were discarded with impatient tugs, and lips met in frantic kisses as hands touched and the pulsing heat controlling their bodies drew them closer. He closed his eyes in relief as he became one with her, feeling that pain and longing slowly ease as she welcomed him deeper into her secret places, letting him discover the mysteries of her being that had so long been denied to him.

There was nothing false about her, nothing wrong. Every gasp of pleasure was like the sweetest music to his ears, and when she breathed his name over and over as he brought her to climax, he felt the wild triumph thrum through his veins, knowing he had finally made her his. She would never forget this night. She would never forget _him_.

Ginny lay beside him afterwards, strangely quiet. She turned her face to look at him, and he met her brown eyes steadily, his expression betraying nothing.

"This is never going to happen again," she said bluntly.

"I know."

"It's not like I care about you. I just—"

She faltered, falling silent, and he smiled and reached out to smooth a stray curl away from her face. "I know," he murmured.

Ginny held her chin high. "Right. So, that's it then."

"That's it," he agreed.

She stared at him uncertainly for a moment, then gave that same little toss of her head and got off the bed. Draco relaxed against the pillows, watching her as she got dressed and then picked up her wand, ready to Disapparate. She hesitated for a moment, glancing back at him. Silver collided with brown, and he inwardly smiled as he saw the uncertainty grow in her eyes. Ginny made a frustrated noise and then vanished with a loud crack.

Draco allowed the smile to manifest on his lips. "You're mine, Ginevra," he whispered, savouring the words. "You're mine."


End file.
